Song unsung///but singing still

Of cats and cookies

And I-hate-chocolate-but-is-there-anymore?

Of toes painted prettily then hid beneath wool socks

And the joy—oh the joy—

Of getting out of the house and into the blue wash of sun

Sweeping clouds off mountains;

Joy enough to surfeit the heart and this is enough,

Enough

Although your operatic voice remained untuned

(For who took a woman seriously in the good-old-boy-days?)

It is enough that you are singing still

In the playtime of sun and shadow.

Listen!

The silence is colored with sound.